Adam and Annemarie
by Lacey Bennet
Summary: How exactly did it come about that a poor kid from the Seam and a pretty girl who worked in the apothecary fell in love? They shouldn't've, considering their positions, have even met in the first place, unless they were both reaped. But they weren't. This is the story of Katniss and Prim's mother and father, from their first meeting to the very end. Please read and review.


A/N: Well, this is probably the longest chapter I have ever written for in any of my stories. (It's 10 pages long). This was originally going to be a one-shot, but then I discovered that I'd never be able to fit everything that will happen between Katniss's mother (Annemarie) and her father (Adam). So now it's a two-shot, or a three-shot, or basically as long as it needs to be to finish the story. So … I worked for A LONG TIME on this chapter alone, so don't expect super regular updates. AND I would LOVE it if you took out two or so minutes to REVIEW. Constructive criticism is nice, I'm cool with that.

Anyways … long Author's Note, now onto the story!

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

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**ANNEMARIE**

I breathe in the sweet smell of herbs that surrounds me. Over the years, the smell has slowly seeped into the floorboards and walls and ceiling so thoroughly that I reckon even if for some reason this little shop was converted into something other than an apothecary, you'd still be able to smell it.

I quickly and expertly wrap the large, yellow-green leaves which splay out like flowers that are in my hands into brown paper. I smile up at the lady over the counter. There are deep, deep lines on her forehead from worrying, like someone's dug them out with a pick and shovel. Her hands fidget a bit at her stained, worn apron and her eyes have a bit of a far-away look. I clear my throat and she looks up. I smile again.

"Make a tea out of these leaves each day for your daughter," I instruct, handing the bundle of leaves over the counter. "One leaf for a kettle-full of water. Add a bit of honey or sugar to sweeten it, if you can."

The lady gives a little jolt. "Honey? Sugar? Luxuries, m'dear. Amy'll cope. Thanks, dear." She asks for the price and I tell her, lowering a bit because it's obvious this family is hungry. Well, of course they are. Almost everyone is.

She hands over the small handful of coins and thanks me again, muttering to herself as she exits the shop. The little silver bell above the door tinkles merrily as she opens the door, and again when she closes it.

I put the coins into the ancient till on the counter. Today's haul isn't so bad, I observe. But we're getting low on herbs. Purpleberries and the large, yellow-green leaves especially. I give a small sigh and shout out to the back of the shop.

"Aunt Nellie! Is it time to close up or d'you want me to just hang around for a bit longer?"

My aunt shouts back, her voice a bit muffled.

"I'll ask your mother!" I hear her shuffling over to wear Mum sews and keeps the accounts for the apothecary, and I hear them talking, but I can't make out what they say. I smile to myself. Aunt Nellie doesn't trust herself to make decisions concerning the apothecary, even small ones like deciding when to close up the shop for the day. She knows that Mum's just hiring her cos she's in a bad position. Husband dead. No children or other relatives. Hates the idea of working in the mines. She knows that Mum could fire her at the drop of a hat, even though I don't think she would.

Aunt Nellie finally shouts out, "Just keep it running for half an hour or so longer, Annie! You're a good girl." I smile to myself again, knowing that Aunt Nellie would have quoted that almost word-for-word from Mum. I can hear her grumbling away to herself as she sews. She doesn't like Aunt Nellie being totally dependent on her, even though it's in her nature.

The little silver bell above the door tinkles again, but I hardly notice, too busy being amused by Mum and Aunt Nellie's antics. It's not until I hear a voice that I turn around.

"Hello." The voice is happy, friendly, nice. I turn to see a guy, probably about my age, maybe a bit older, holding a leather game-bag and grinning merrily. There's something else I notice too. He's a poor kid. One of the kids from the mining part of the District. Which is, I remind myself, the majority of the District. I approach him carefully, but he seems friendly enough, so I venture to speak.

"Hello," I reply, "What do you want?"

He grins again. My Lord, he's got a good smile. The way he smiles you'd think there's nothing in the world to care about. Not the reapings. Not the Games. Not the hunger.

"You need some more herbs?" he asks, holding up the game-bag. I understand now. He's one of those kids who are so hungry that they pick random grass and leaves off the trees and try to sell them to the apothecary. I decide to go along with it. He might have something useful in that game-bag, after all.

"What have you got?" I ask, putting my hands down firmly on the counter and suddenly transforming into a tough trader. He grins again (how can one person smile so much?) and puts his game-bag onto the counter.

"Introductions first," he says politely. He's still grinning. "I'm Adam." He sticks out his hand. "Who're you?"

"I'm Annemarie," I reply, shaking his hand. He's got a warm, strong hand, but it's also gentle. _Snap out of it, Annie!_ I shake myself mentally. _ He'll rob all the money from the till if you don't concentrate!_

"Pretty name," Adam says, (you guessed it!) smiling.

"So what have you got?" I ask again.

Adam tips his game-bag upside-down and spills the contents onto the counter. The first thing I see are purpleberries. Where would he have gotten them? The only place you can get purpleberries is ordering them from the Capitol (which is quite expensive). Although … I remember seeing them growing wild a couple of times in the woods outside District 12, outside the boundary fence. Surely he couldn't've … has this boy been in the woods?

There are other goodies too. Daisy stems, wild garlic, lily-flowers … my eyes widen as they take in the loot.

"Anything useful there?" Adam asks. He's trying to pretend he doesn't know the medical properties of these plants. That he _is_ just one of those kids trying to sell clumps of grass with the roots still attached. But I know better. He knows that I can use these plants. I decide to take the bull by the horns.

"Where'd you get all this?" I ask, looking up at him.

His smile fades, and I think to myself how it's a bit of a disappointment when it does. Then suddenly he's grinning again. He leans in close to me, over the counter, so I can see his eyes – grey with flecks of green and sparkling with mischief.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asks in a low voice. I lean in towards him so that my ear is near his mouth.

"Yes?" I whisper, curious and eager.

"I got them from the woods," he says, then straightens up abruptly, grinning.

"Really?" I whisper, straightening up myself. "But – what about the fence?"

He shrugs. "It's hardly ever electrified. Haven't you noticed?" He must know I haven't. I don't live in the poorer part of District 12. I must be, in his eyes, nothing more than one of those "little rich kids". I heard one of the miner's sons call me that in school one day when he thought I couldn't hear him.

I want to ask more, but he stops me from saying anything. "So, do you need any of this?" he gestures with his hand the spread of berries, grass, flowers and leaves. I snap back into reality.

"Yes," I say abruptly, then quickly sort the herbs into two piles – one that I will buy and one that I won't. I notice that the pile I want to buy is significantly larger than the other. "How much do you want for it?' I gesture to the larger pile.

He ponders it for a while. "What would you usually have to pay to get this from the Hob?" The Hob's where I go to buy most of our herbs. How does he know this? I brush the thought aside and give him the price. He smiles (he does have a wonderful smile), and names a price which is significantly lower than that I would have paid at the Hob.

I begin to protest, but he cuts in smoothly. "Think of it this way. The people who sell you herbs at the Hob have to grow them in their own garden. They have to harvest the seeds every year and make sure their plants don't die. It takes an awful lot of time and it's really quite difficult to keep the plants healthy." I nod in agreement. We grow quite a few plants in our garden out the back. "But I … all I have to do is sneak into the woods without being seen and take some time out of my schedule to pick these."

I guess he does have a point. "Okay," I agree reluctantly. It still doesn't seem fair. Then I have an idea. "Wait there for a second." I rush out to the back of the shop where Mum sews and Aunt Nellie hovers around, asking if she can do anything to help.

"What are you doing, Annie?" calls out Mum when she sees me.

"Just getting something," I call back.

I run into the kitchen and quickly pack a little wicker basket full of goodies. We have more food than usual; we've been getting good trade lately. I pack in a loaf of fresh bread from the baker, a few small apples, some cheese and a tiny bottle of milk. I look at the basket, satisfied, and decided to add one last touch. I grab some pretty blue and purple flowers from the bench and arrange them neatly in the basket. Then I rush back out to the counter.

Adam is still there. He's packed all the herbs I didn't want back into his game-bag and he has slung it back over his shoulder. His eyes light up when he sees me carrying the little wicker basket full of food.

"Are those for me?" he breathes, obviously gob-smacked. I nod.

I set the basket on the counter and turn to the till. I count out the correct amount of money and add a little extra – I'm sure he won't notice.

"Wait – no – you can't give me the money as well," he protests, but I cut him off.

"Think of it this way," I say sweetly, wrapping up the coins in brown paper and tucking them into the basket, then sliding it across the counter to him. "I need the herbs. You need the money and the food. It's a win-win." I can see he knows I've got him.

"Thank you," he says, taking the little basket and tucking it carefully into his leather game-bag. "Wait – I have a gift for you too."

I turn back, having just started to walk to the back of the shop, and look at him curiously. He's rummaging around in that game-bag of his, and finally he finds what he's looking for. He hands the little bottle to me proudly, grinning all the while. I gasp when I realise what it is.

"Honey?" Where on earth did Adam get this luxury? And why is he giving it to me? "No – Adam –"

"Think of it this way," he says as he steps casually away from the counter, "I'm going now, so you can't give it back. See you, Marie." And with that he was gone, the only evidence of his visit being the herbs, the honey, and the merry tinkling of the bell.

Dinner that night was a curious affair.

Mum had made stew and baked a loaf of bread, and Aunt Nellie had tried to help her but Mum finally convinced her that the lemons on the tree out the back really needed picking. So dinner was, for the first time in a while, actually edible without the unfortunate aftermath of indigestion.

But that was not the only unusual thing that happened.

"Annie," begins Mum after a lull in the conversation, "Do you know where the milk and cheese went? And I thought I had some bread there too – proper baker's bread!"

I look down at my plate, embarrassed, as hot blood creeps up my neck. I take my time to answer, pushing the stew around my plate with my fork before looking up again. "Um – yeah, I do actually."

Mum raises her eyebrows. Then she sighs. She knows I can be soft-hearted.

"Whatever now, Annemarie?" she sighs, exasperated, as I register the use of my full name. I'm immediately put on defence.

"He sold me herbs, Mum!" I protest, then realise she doesn't even know who I'm talking about.

"It was a he, was it?" muttered Aunt Nellie, more to herself than Mum or me.

"A boy came into the shop today," I begin to explain, "A poor boy. From the mining part of the District." Mum nods seriously. Aunt Nellie sees this and nods too, perhaps just a bit too enthusiastically. "It was just a bit after you'd told me to keep the shop open for a bit longer. He came in and said he wanted to sell me herbs.

"I thought he was one of those kids who just pick some dry yellow grass from the side of the road and try to sell it. But I also thought he might have something useful.

"You won't believe what he had hidden in his bag! I'll show you later – chamomile, lily-flowers … oh, and purpleberries too!" That got their attention.

"Go on," says Mum, watching me attentively.

"Well anyway … I decided to buy what we needed and what I thought was useful. He asked me what I would have paid at the Hob. I told him. He named a price, almost half of what Kitty Burns would have requested." Kitty Burns was the woman who I bought the majority of our herbs from. She drove a hard bargain. "So I –"

"Gave him food, yes," finishes Mum for me.

"Yes …" I say. "Oh – but Mum – he gave me something too!"

"What was it?" asks Aunt Nellie suspiciously.

"Honey," I reply, rummaging around in the pocket of my apron as Mum and Aunt Nellie exchanged amazed glances. I finally extract the tiny glass bottle from my pocket and hold it up proudly. Mum takes it from my hands and just looks at it, shocked. Then she twists the lid off and gives it a sniff. Finally she takes the tiniest dab on her finger and tastes it.

"Honey," she says, amazed. "Real honey." She shakes her head and gives it back to me. "Keep that safe, Annie," she instructs.

"What do you mean?" I ask, holding the bottle but not returning it to my pocket.

"It's yours," Mum explained simply. "He gave it to you."

"But –" I protest.

"Oh, just keep it, Annie," says Aunt Nellie tiredly. I, shocked by a sentence that wasn't totally Mum's coming from Aunt Nellie's mouth, simply return it to my pocket speechlessly.

We eat our stew in silence for a minute longer, then Mum speaks up.

"Just one question, Annie," Mum says, looking up at me over her plate, "Where did the boy get all those herbs?"

I look down at my plate, then up at Mum again.

"I don't know," I say, crossing my fingers under the table, "He didn't tell me."

The rattling of the back door disturbs the awkward silence. "Oi! Daisy! Let me into my own house, won't you, I'm starving!" Mum's eyes lit up suddenly and she jumped up from her seat, rushing to the door to un-bolt it. Aunt Nellie looks over at me with a wry smile and says, "Love enslaves us all, Annie dear."

"Michael!" I hear Mum's voice coming from the next room, and the sound of her kissing Dad. "How was work today?" Dad groans.

"Worse than usual," he replies wearily, "There was a mine collapse – we lost two of our men."

"Oh!" gasps Mum, as my stomach twists in shock and sadness, "Who – who was –?"

"Later," sighs Dad. They walk into the dining room at that point. Dad's shoulders are slumped forward and he is covered in coal dust. Dad had to start work in the mines about a year ago, when Aunt Nellie moved in – we wouldn't have had enough money to feed four people. But of course we haven't told Aunt Nellie that that was the reason.

Dad's face lights up when he sees me. "Annie!" he says, engulfing me in a hug which covers me in coal dust. "Oh – sorry – how are you?"

"I'm good, Dad," I reply, smiling.

"That's good," says Dad, smiling back at me. I think, involuntarily, of Adam. "Well," he says, addressing Mum now, "Stew for dinner? Yum." Dad settles himself down in the empty chair and we all begin to eat again.

After dinner, I have a bath and get ready for bed. I comb out my long, blonde hair and plait it into two plaits to sleep in. I go to the lounge room where Mum is knitting and Aunt Nellie is untangling wool. "Night, Mum. Night, Aunt Nellie," I say, and kiss each on the cheeks.

"Sweet dreams," says Aunt Nellie softly, looking up at me with sad eyes. I know what she's thinking about. I nod.

Dad's in our tiny store room, doing a quick stocktake. "Night, Dad," I call from the hallway.

"Goodnight, Annie!" he calls back. I walk to the only bedroom in our house. There are two beds. Mum and Dad share one and Aunt Nellie and I share the other. Even "rich kids" like me don't live like the Capitol.

I lie down on the smaller of the beds and snuggle into the hand-knitted blankets, inhaling the smell deeply. I can't define the smell – it's just one which I associate with this blanket. Then suddenly an appropriate word comes to mind: _home_.

I drift off to sleep thinking happy thoughts.

I've always held the philosophy that if you've had a happy day, and if you go to sleep feeling happy, it equals happy dreams.

Yeah right.

For the first time ever, my philosophy is proved wrong. Instead of hours of meaningless skipping through meadows in the never-ending sunshine, an old, sour nightmare resurfaces. I feel bile rise up in my mouth as the familiar horror unfolds. _Oh, no_, I think. _Not now. Not tonight. Oh, please, brain, why couldn't you have sent me a happy dream?_

I reinvent my philosophy. It is not possible for a day to go by which was utterly perfect and everything went your way. It's also not possible for a day to go by in which everything goes wrong and everyone turns against you. It makes sense.

But sensible philosophies aren't going to help me through this nightmare.

It starts off at the reaping. It always starts off at the reaping. Tensions are high, higher than usual, as this is the reaping of the 50th Annual Hunger Games. The Quarter Quell. Twice as many kids will be reaped out of those big glass balls this year.

Siblings cling onto each other, reluctant to separate into their age groups just yet. Some of the little kids, the twelve-year olds, sob unrestrained. _Poor things,_ I think, looking down at them with pity. I remembered my first reaping.

I sidle next to Maysilee in the area for fifteen-year olds.

"Hey," she says, attempting a smile. I simply nod, not trusting myself to speak.

The mayor walks up to the microphone on stage just as the town clock strikes two. He reads the story of Panem from the little paper cards he holds in one hand. My mind wanders off to another place as his deep, sonorous voice fills the town square. I turn my head and roll my eyes in exasperation at Maysilee who rolls hers back in return. We look back up at the stage to see the mayor stepping down from the podium and returning to his seat, shoving the palm cards roughly into his pocket.

The next speaker – a short, squat woman – sidles up to the microphone. Tiffany Murdoch. I notice how, when she takes a deep breath, she squeezes her stomach inwards in a vain effort to look slimmer. "It's not working, Tiffany!" I want to call out to her, but I don't.

"Hello, hello, hello!" squeals Tiffany Murdoch in an excited albeit terribly fake voice. "It's such an honour to be here! Amongst all you lot, the future of Panem!" she looks down at us with pride shining in her eyes as I notice the way she seems to put an exclamation mark at the end of each sentence she says. Tiffany Murdoch gives a little speech about just how _excited_ she is to be here, and isn't it _exciting _that the Quarter Quell is finally here, and what an _excitement_ that there will be double the normal amount of tributes!

That's when I stop listening.

Tiffany Murdoch finally finishes her speech and then it's time for the drawing of the names. You can feel the way the air quickly changes, as everyone becomes more alert and the fear is more obvious in everyone's eyes. Some of the twelve-year olds start crying again. Everyone takes a deep breath which no one would have heard if only one person had done it, but with the whole population of District 12 doing it, you can hear it alright, and it just adds to the mounting tension.

Suddenly it's as if I'm watching the scene from the end of a long tunnel. _Go away, dream. Go away, dream._ It doesn't go away, and all too soon Tiffany Murdoch is leaning into the microphone with a fake smile and saying, "Ladies first!"

The tunnel disappears and suddenly I'm back where I was before, next to Maysilee with my stomach twisting up in a big, uncomfortable knot. _Please don't let it be me. Please don't let it be me._

Tiffany's hand hovers enticingly above the glass ball with the girls' names in it before plunging her hand into it and grabbing a random slip. She walks back to the podium and smiles again before slowly, agonisingly unfolding the slip to reveal the name of the doom-fated person.

"The first of District Twelve's tributes, one of the two girls, is …" she trails off, smiling evilly as she enjoys the sensation of torturing us. "Felicity Hale!" It's an unfamiliar name for me, and everyone sighs as they realise it's not them. Felicity Hale steps out from the thirteen-year old section. She stands, looking at the stage for a moment; head high, shoulders back, eyes glaring and steady. I would have thought she was utterly unfazed by it all, apart from the fact that her bottom lip was wobbling. Then she set off at a brisk pace to the stage.

"Good girl, that's it," encourages Tiffany Murdoch as the little girl walks up onto the stage. Felicity Hale doesn't take her helping hand, doesn't even look at her. I silently cheer the little girl in my head.

"Right!" says Tiffany abruptly, in a very back-to-business fashion. "Now for the next girl tribute from District Twelve!" Suddenly the tension, which was briefly lifted when Felicity was reaped, descends back on the crowd like a low-lying cloud of despair. Tiffany Murdoch marches back to the big glass ball and reaches her hand into it, slowly, delicately, as if not to ruin the moment. I suddenly feel sick. _Not me, not me, not me,_ I chant quickly in my head. Tiffany finally selects a slip and trots back to the microphone.

"_And_," she says, putting special emphasis on the word, "The second female tribute for District Twelve is –" She pauses briefly to unfold the piece of paper, "Maysilee Donner!" I gasp involuntarily and grab Maysilee's arm without thinking. She shakes me off and straightens up, then steps out of the crowd.

"Maysilee!" calls a desperate voice, "Noooo – Maysilee!" I turn to see Maysilee's sister, Merridawn. She's fallen over, involuntarily, and a boy I recognise as the mayor's son tries to help her up but she can't get back on her feet even with assistance. Merridawn is screaming, screaming, screaming … I don't know how to stop it.

Cameras swoop down gleefully on the sight of Merridawn's distress while Maysilee walks silently up to the stage. I crouch next to a sobbing and screaming Merridawn and try to calm her.

"Shh … shh, Merridawn," I beg. "Please …" But honestly, I don't know what to do.

"No!" she gasps, "No, I – I –" I think for a split second she's going to volunteer, and I panic, "They can't do it!"

The ceremony is put briefly on hold while Merridawn calms down. She manages to sit up, but still she refuses to get off the ground.

"Well," begins a rather flustered Tiffany Murdoch, "That was – well – time for the boys!" She walks at a brisk pace, a real feat in that dress and those heels, over to the big glass ball that contains the slips of paper with the boys' names on them. There is another deep intake of breath, but I'm too occupied soothing Merridawn to notice, and besides, there's no one I know whose name would be in there. No one I care about, anyway.

The two boys are reaped. Both names ring a bell, but I don't know either of them well. They are Haymitch Abernethy and William Thomson. I'm still on the ground, holding Merridawn's hand and whispering sweet nothings to her while she begins to hyperventilate.

The reaping is over. The people who were reaped – Maysilee among them – file silently off the stage whilst the rest of us walk silently home.

Now to the really horrifying part of this repeated, recurring nightmare.

I'm in the arena, with Maysilee. I watch as the horror unfolds. It's far more real, far more vivid than when I watched it at home on the TV screen. Now I'm actually in the arena, I can get hurt.

_It's a dream, it's a dream,_ I think quickly to myself, trying to resurface into consciousness. _Not real, not real. You can't get hurt._

But it is real. And even if I can't get hurt physically, there is more than one way to break a person.

And even if I can't hurt, Maysilee can.

I follow her like a ghost while the 50th Annual Hunger Games unfolds into terrible reality. Even if Maysilee can't see me or hear my repetitive warnings and hints, other tributes can. I get separated from Maysilee when a big, oafish boy from District Four sees me hiding and chases me roaring something intelligible and swinging an axe.

I can't find Maysilee again after that, and the Games becomes about me, not her. But after escaping from a girl from District Two, I hear her scream.

"Maysilee!" I shout, running to her voice. It's so far away, so far. Is it possible that I'll never reach it? "Maysilee!" I cry out again. I clambered through a maze-like clump of dense thorny bushes, and suddenly there she is.

The flock of candy-pink birds with their long, razor-sharp beaks fly off in a hurry. "Maysilee," I whisper, slumping down onto the ground. Blood flows freely from a long gash in her neck, and for the first time during the Games, she hears me. She turns head, slowly excruciatingly, towards me. "Marie …" she whispers. Then suddenly I see her face, and my stomach knots itself in fear. I scream.

Because although it was Maysilee's body, it's not her voice and certainly not her face. Her eye sockets are empty and the edges are crusted with dry blood. Maysilee sits up slowly as I edge away, still sitting down. Her skin is whiter than starched bandages and her mouth is that of a wolf's.

"Maysilee?" I whisper tentatively, wondering if my friend is still in there somewhere. Her head jerks suddenly and if she had eyes, I know she'd be looking straight at me right now. "Merridawn …" she hisses. "Marie … Merridawn …" She begins to prowl towards me, a gross mutation of her former self.

"No – No!" I cry, scrabbling to my feet.

Then she pounces.

I wake up sobbing and terrified. The sheets are twisted around be and I lie there, panting, sweaty and scared for a few seconds, paralysed. I can hear deep breathing around me, so I conclude that I didn't wake anyone. Usually I do when I have that nightmare.

I arrange the sheets back into some sort of order and peer over at Aunt Nellie. Yes, she's still asleep too. It's not surprising, really. Aunt Nellie's a deep sleeper.

I settle down again and close my eyes, trying to regulate my breathing and fall back asleep. But it's impossible. Whenever I close my eyes, it's suddenly there again behind my eyelids: Maysilee, dead, Haymitch, mourning, Merridawn, forever traumatized, and me … plagued with nightmares.

I decide to get up, walk around, get a glass of water perhaps. I feel unsteady and a little sick in the stomach as I stumble out of our small bedroom. I rub my eyes and cling onto the wall, trying to steady myself. Then I edge my way into the kitchen.

I pour myself a glass of water in the kitchen and drink it in one big gulp. I still feel sick and a little dizzy, so I sit down on the floor and put my head between my knees, breathing heavily.

It doesn't help. Fresh air, that's what I need. But – and I'm ashamed to admit this – I'm scared to go outside. Outside is a dangerous, dark, leering place at night. A place where wolves howl and the mutt-form of Maysilee haunts me.

I stand up and put the glass down on the bench. Silly. Silly, really. To still be afraid of the dark at my age. But I am.

I am determined to go outside. I know fresh air will make me feel better – it can get really stuffy in here sometimes. I walk over to where my apron is hanging on the back of the door and reach into one of the pockets. I rummage around for a bit, then find what I'm looking for and draw it out. The honey. I grasp it in one hand like a talisman and slowly open the back door.

There are no mutts waiting there to greet me. I'm tempted to simply stand on this little step, breathing in the cool night air from here, but suddenly I am determined to go somewhere. I'm going to conquer my fear of the dark. I have to. Then suddenly an odd thought pops into my head, but I grasp it immediately: _For Maysilee_.

I step out into the small back garden we have and the door silently swings shut behind me. Somehow this seems much more ominous than it really is. The ground feels frozen and I'm beginning to regret having bare feet. When I breathe, my breath makes little cloud in the frozen night air.

"Hey!"

I gasp, freeze, then back track quickly to the back door.

"Wait! – Marie – it's just me!" Now I recognise the voice.

"Adam?" I breathe, not courageous enough to turn around. "What are you doing here?"

"Well," he says, and I jump and wheel around because his voice is right behind me. He grins down at me and my stomach lurches, except in a nice way. "I just came back from," his voice drops, "you know … _the woods_." He grins at me like a naughty school boy. I smile back, and it feels like the first time I've properly smiled in a long time.

"What are you doing out here?" Adam asks, holding out his hand. I take it in one of mine and step down to stand next to him. My breath rises in little clouds as I speak, as I explain.

"I had a nightmare," I begin, bile rising into my throat. I think that I should probably let go of Adam's hand, but I feel safe like this, one hand in his and the other clutching the honey he gave me. Safer, anyway. "You know Maysilee Donner?" I hear his breath catch.

"She was the girl …" he trails off looking down.

"Reaped for the Quarter Quell, yes," I whisper, a big, hard lump rising in my throat as I say the words in an expressionless voice. "So – yes – I had a nightmare."

I have said enough – he understands. But what I don't expect is for him to draw me into a big, warm hug. I'm surprised, but pleased as well as I hug him back. His heartbeat is steady and loud next to my ear. I smile to myself.

He lets go of me and gives a sad smile. Gripping my hand, he cups my face in the other hand and looks down at me – my breath catches.

"Good luck, Marie," he whispers, barely audible, "Be safe, be careful. Don't, for the sake of happiness and peace, put yourself into any danger. Okay?" It makes me laugh, but it is a bitter laugh – this boy who ventures into the wood, almost daily, telling me not to break the rules?

"Okay?" he says again, looking down at me with hope in his grey-green eyes.

"Okay." I agree, and suddenly, too suddenly he is letting go of my hand, his other hand is falling from my face, and too soon he is gone. I hug myself in the cold night air and stay standing there like that for almost half an hour before my slowly freezing feet and extremities beg the mercy of a warm blanket. In that half an hour, I ponder, I make plans. I think of how we could change the apothecary to get more customers, I plan a vegetable garden out the back here so we can have more food. But eventually, yes, I go back into the house and curl up in bed.

I hadn't wanted to; it seemed to break a spell. I had revelled in the cold wind that made me shiver and the frozen soil under my bare toes. Going inside, warming up, back to civilisation and other humans, doing that seemed to change something. I felt uncomfortably warm in the bed I shared with Aunt Nellie.

It was only the next morning that I realised why – why I had felt fine in the cold but hot back inside.

The honey had been a talisman. It had kindled a warm pleasant fire inside of me – a fire that I knew would only blow out on one occasion, and when it did, it would never again be lighted.

* * *

**ADAM**

The little bell tinkles merrily as I leave the apothecary. For some reason the strap of my game-bag seemed heavier than when I had entered, which is odd, because I sold almost all of the contents to the girl behind the counter at the apothecary. My step quickens at the thought – she had been different to the other town girls. Not bossy, not obsessed with her own reflection, not looking down at me like I was a scrappy excuse for a person. No – she had been nice.

My eyes sharpen as I get closer to the Seam. Perhaps a detour through the woods … no, too risky. I could quite easily get caught, slipping under the fence out here, in the open. And what was I hiding from, anyway? I challenged, myself squaring my shoulders.

The ashamed answer came to me like a puppy returning with its tail between its legs, whimpering. _Dad_.

Dad doesn't know for sure that I slip into the woods to get food. He has his suspicions, I can tell, but he isn't positive. I sigh. Dad wants me to be educated. I know he just wants me to make him proud, as he's a miner and never got a proper education, but I don't care about reading and writing and arithmetic. As far as I'm concerned, knowing how to spell and work out multiplication problems isn't going to save me if I get reaped for the Games.

The last thought is sudden and takes me by surprise. It had wandered into my brain and was like those things you blurt out on accident and instantly regret. But it shouldn't surprise me, really. Everything comes back to the Games.

As I get closer and closer to my house, the town slowly deteriorates. Houses become hovels and shacks which eventually just become cloaks propped up on sticks in attempt to fend off the weather. Yes, this is how some of us live in District 12. The poor part, anyway.

Some people are madly afraid of the poorhouse and the dangers it holds for them and their children, but I know as a fact that the people who run it hardly ever do thorough searches for people who are struggling. This is the only reason why all these people have been allowed to continue on living in their poor excuses for homes. It makes me mad; they'd be better off and have more food in the poorhouse – and that's saying something.

Finally I am home. It has taken so long because I dawdled, taking in the view of the scruffy dirt road and the starving people sitting beside it, people who have given up and lost hope.

I walk up to the front door and give it a little push. It swings open immediately, and to my shock and horror, bangs loudly against the wall. No creeping in without a sound, then.

"Adam?" calls a startled voice from inside. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, Mum, it's just me," stepping over the threshold and into the gloom of our house, lit only by a few short, squat candles, flickering on a nearby table. "Is Dad here yet?" I add, perhaps a little too hopefully. Mum laughs from the chair in the corner. My eyes just make out her faint shape in the gloom.

"No, no, he's working late today." Even though I can't see her face properly, I can tell she's pursing her lips in disagreement. "Open some windows will you? I can hardly see my sewing."

I do as she asks, pushing out the wooden shutters of the three windows in our house. The light flows in so I can see Mum's face and she can see her sewing. Her face is pale, and looks longer than usual as she slowly stitches two bits of coarse, brown fabric together.

"I've got a surprise for you," I say, kneeling down next to her. She looks at me and smiles slowly, the wrinkles next to her eyes lifting a bit.

"You're too good to me, you gentleman," she scolds, but she is still smiling. I pretend to be hurt.

"Would you prefer I didn't?" I ask innocently, bowing my head to conceal the smile that's playing across my lips.

Mum laughs. "You know I wouldn't!" she cries, "Now, what do you have in that bag of yours, hm?"

"Well, I got some … stuff … from … well, you know," Mum nods seriously. She's guessed as much. "I traded most of it with the girl who was at the counter of the apothecary." Mum interrupts me.

"Oh, a girl? I see," she says, winking.

"Awww, Mum, not like that!" I groan. She just laughs.

"I was young once too," she says, her eyes going misty as if recalling childhood memories.

"Anyway," I hurry on, "She gave me money – look –" I reach into my bag and grab the handful of coins. Mum takes them and just stares, wide-eyed. "- but that's not all, she also gave me food for the herbs – some apples, cheese and milk, and bread."

"Bread?" asks Mum, evidently not impressed.

"_Proper baker's bread_," I elaborate, using my mother's favourite group of words in the whole entire universe. Mum smiles, pleased.

"Well, she sounds like a right lady," she says, inspecting the contents of my bag, "Nice, generous … pretty?" She shoots me a sly look but I decide to answer the question honestly.

"Yes," I decide, after a moment of thought. "Yes, I thought she was."

"And you're a right gentleman, lad," says Mum, patting me on the back.

"Thanks Mum."

* * *

**ANNEMARIE**

The Hob is dirty, dusty, and smells funny. I know that any of the other girls who live in the "privileged" part of District 12 would rather be reaped than set a foot in here. But I don't mind – I feel naughty and rebellious and free trading in here. Besides, I need to come for the apothecary – that's my excuse, anyway.

Although I do sometimes feel intimidated – everyone seems taller than me and some people shoot me dirty glares, as if to say, _You're one of them rich kids. You don't belong here_. I suppose it's my blond hair that tips them off. Everyone here is from the Seam, and their hair is typically dark: mine stands out.

All the hustle and bustle is a bit scary too. I'm used to the routine – if there is _any_ routine here – now, but when I first came here it was all confusing and disordered. That afternoon I came back home with a few coat buttons and most of the things that had been in my bag stolen, taken by little kids with swift fingers. It didn't bother me too much – I knew they needed it more than I do. But what I have learned is not to get distracted and to keep your goods always in sight.

Today I am simply here because of the cold. It hasn't gotten far enough into winter to start snowing yet, but lately there have been cold, rain driven diagonal by the wind and we've woken up with a thin sheet of ice covering things. Hardly anyone is desperate enough to try to reach the apothecary in _this_ weather, and it's cold in the rooms out the back, where we only have one fireplace and no longer enough wood to keep it warm enough to repel the cold. So Mother and Aunt Nellie suggested I go to the Hob, where there are two main fireplaces as well as multiple smaller fires used by the stall-holders to cook, or simply to attract customers.

"Take some herbs," Mum had instructed me, preparing a little bag with everything I would need. She gives me the remedies for colds, coughs and the flu, because these are the most common ailments at the moment. "Try to trade them for food, if not, firewood." Mum begs me under her breath, sending a worried look at Aunt Nellie. Aunt Nellie hasn't been eating as much as she should lately, and she's been talking less too. Mum is worried about her. "Okay?"

"Alright, Mum," I replied dutifully. "I'll be back before two."

"Good girl," said Mum, drawing me in a hug.

"Bye!" I had called from the door, then stepped out into the freezing wind and biting rain.

So far I've managed to trade three quarters of the remedies Mum gave me for a big bag of firewood. It's heavy, and it makes me realize I should probably venture home soon, as I won't be able to lug it around the Hob all day. But I still need some food.

A lady at a table near me is selling greens. I go over to and begin to barter.

"Would you give me a bag of greens for a bottle of flu medicine?" I ask hopefully, scanning the table hungrily.

"Two bottles," says the lady.

My heart caves in – she needs two bottles of flu medicine? I can't say no to that, even though it's not exactly a fair trade, "Alright," I whisper.

The lady's face lifts in a smile and she begins to shove a generous amount of greens into a bag. I take out two bottles of flu medicine from my pocket, and give them to her, then take the greens in return and shove them into my bag. I'm awful at bargaining here, at the Hob. I always lower the price or give extra … but I justify this by reasoning that they need it more than I do.

I sigh and decide I have enough. It's probably time I got home anyway. As I leave, I reach into my pocket for little bottle of honey that's always there: my talisman.

But it's gone.

* * *

So what did you think? Like it? Hate it? Something kinda semi in-between? Please be kind and courteous and _leave a review_, to tell me. Please?


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